Halme Der Nacht

She combs her hair, like the dead are combed,

She carries the blue fragments under her robe.

She bears the fragment-world on a single skein.

She knows the words, but she only beams.

She mixes her smile in the glass of wine:

She must drink it, to exist in the world.

You are the photograph, where her fragments are seen,

When she leans toward making of life some meaning.
excerpt from the poem